


Let Me Stand Next To Your Fire

by Cat_Latin



Category: Stargate: Atlantis
Genre: M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Post Episode: s02e06 Trinity, Tarot Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:11:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat_Latin/pseuds/Cat_Latin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>  A dash of angst, some stick-fighting, and hot, sweaty porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Stand Next To Your Fire

**Author's Note:**

> I bow to the spirit of Jimi Hendrix for the title.  Written for hullfire's Tarot Card Challenge.  I drew the King of Wands.  Wands are about fire, passion, fierceness, generosity, spirituality, action and risk-taking. The King embodies these qualities in a leadership role. 
> 
> This story was a first, a second and a third for me: The very first SGA story I wrote, the second fanfic I ever wrote, and the third story I ever finished.

Rodney no longer looked John in the eye. 

On the surface, it was business as usual in Atlantis.  Rodney still barked at his staff.  He still worked miracles with limited resources on a daily basis.  He still functioned well on the team. 

No one mentioned Rodney's sudden obsession with everyone else's safety.  Since the Doranda incident, John seemed to be the only one to notice that Rodney barely spoke to him.

It had taken all of five seconds, the duration of a chickenshit escape across the city by transporter, for John to get over his stupid trust issues.  He knew he’d stick his neck out in any worst-case scenario and trust Rodney to figure out a way to keep him—to keep all of them alive.

John sucked at soul-searching, but Rodney's three-week near-silence afforded him a lot of time to think. 

John had broken the First Unspoken Rule.  The Rule was never discussed in briefings.  You'd never find anything about it on a memo, and any private references to it were, at best, circumspect. 

The First Unspoken Rule was: We Are In This Together, No Matter What.  Whenever huge mistakes are made, whenever someone dies horribly, or suffers injury, the emotional fallout will be divided evenly amongst the senior staff.

Elizabeth, Rodney, John, Carson, Teyla, and a few select others each took on a portion of the burden. 

This was how they stayed sane. 

John could see that his careless words had shifted that, in Rodney’s head anyway, so that all misfortune, both real and imagined, was now just Rodney’s to deal with.

And John was an asshole, because he couldn’t figure out how to take it back.

Someone else was hovering silently when John finally screwed up his courage to go to the lab.  He stood near Rodney, watching him work, close enough to catch his scent, and that was just a whole other can of worms right there, because this was about friendship and trust, and not about unrequited… _anything._  
  
Radek was on the other side of the room, bent over his own work.  He gave them a couple of curious glances, but made no comment.  John wasn't worried about him.  Radek was cool.

“Something I can do for you, Colonel?”  Rodney didn’t look up from his work.  He never did, these days.  Well, even less than before.  John crossed his arms and stared at the floor, hard.  He muttered into his shirt, “I miss you.”  Then he fled.

Rodney hadn’t caught it, but Teyla had, thank god…

…which was how John found himself in a sparring room with Rodney and Teyla just before sunrise on the team’s day off.  Ronon was out playing on the mainland, lucky, lucky, oblivious bastard.

Rodney kept sneaking glances in John’s direction, clearly uncomfortable with John’s presence; in fact, he had looked a bit stunned when John walked in.  What the hell was Teyla planning?

“Wear something comfortable, and be well-rested,” Teyla had instructed John.  “Show up with your mind and heart open.”  John wondered if Rodney had received similar instructions, and if so, how the hell she had gotten him to show up. 

Yet there he was, incongruous in sweats and a t-shirt, and _barefoot,_ no less.  Rodney was always a touch softer, slightly more biddable when dealing with Teyla and her whims.  Still, her diplomacy skills must have been stretched to the limit.

Teyla had chosen her own sanctuary for this meeting, the good sparring room, the one with the smooth floors that were always warm under bare feet.  The tall amber windows had been flung open to invite the clean salt air.  No one trained in this room unless they were invited, and only if accompanied by Teyla.  John saw to it that the Marines sweated and grunted and tossed each other around in another part of the city. 

Around the room, the soft glow of dozens of candles created small points of warmth in the bluish pre-dawn light.

Rodney took in the scene and stammered, “Somehow I’m thinking this is going to be more than a little early-morning warm-up class.  I’m not really good with the whole metaphysical, spiritual thing, I mean, have you actually _met_ me?”

“I can assure you that this will appeal to your brilliant scientific mind,”  Teyla said dryly.  Rodney huffed and rolled his eyes, and John had never seen a more uplifting sight.

Teyla motioned them to join her in a corner of the room where she kept her towels, her bag, and a worn rectangular wooden box, about the length and width of a violin case.  John had asked her about it once or twice, and received only cryptic answers. 

Teyla lowered herself to the floor with her usual grace, and invited them to join her.  Rodney was oddly compliant, quiet even, whether from shared curiosity or his uncomfortable proximity to John, who knew?

Teyla fished through her bag and produced a set of keys.  The longest and most complicated looking of these sprung the lock, and the open box revealed a set of traditional banto sticks, though older and even finer than the ones Teyla used regularly. 

“The sticks are but a few hundred years old.  They are replaced as needed,” Teyla murmured, reaching inside the box for an item nestled in the cloth between them.  It was a small clay figure.  Teyla picked it up, handling it reverently.

“Cool,” John said.  
“Well, it’s definitely male,” Rodney muttered.

The little figure held a stick in each of its square, simple hands, and sprouted another, almost as impressive, between its legs. 

“This image is the oldest Athosian relic in my people’s possession.  As Leader, it is trusted to my keeping.  It is a primitive image of the Lord of Rods, a hero in Athosian mythology.  In our First Days, the story goes,  the Lord of Rods brought three things to my people:  the promise of fertility, the use of fire, and the art of the banto sticks.  It was believed that if a young person touched this image, it would foretell future proficiency with the sticks."

“And how would it do that?”  Rodney asked.  John was already forming a theory, and he could see the wheels turning behind Rodney's eyes as well.

"It was once believed that the Lord of Rods' spirit would come into the body to demonstrate whether or not the person would become a prodigy."  Teyla saw the unspoken question in both of their eyes. “When I touched the image as a child, nothing happened,”  she added.

“So you learned to kick ass and take names all by yourself,” John declared.  “Why am I not surprised?”

Teyla smiled.  "Now that I have a better understanding of the unique genetic code that connects some people more closely to the Ancients, I must wonder if the image is even older than we thought.  I now suspect it contains a piece of Ancient technology.”

John automatically reached out to touch it.  “No,” Teyla said quietly, and John drew back.  This was usually the part where Rodney cursed John creatively and at length for his stupidity, but he didn’t.  John really missed that. 

“I would like to share this with Rodney,"  Teyla said.  At Rodney's wide-eyed stare, she said quickly, "I have written accounts of the image's use over many generations.  There were no reports of it ever causing harm."

Rodney cleared his throat.  "Well, I'm incredibly honored that you would want to share this with me, but why me?"

"Because, in light of recent events, I believe you could most benefit from it."  No one asked what Teyla meant, and Rodney continued to look doubtful.   "If you agree to this, I will allow you to examine the image in the lab later, if you can assure me it won’t be damaged."

Damn, Teyla was good.  She reached out and clasped Rodney’s hand.

"The presence of the Ancient gene in my people is rare.  I have never actually witnessed the image work.  I would like to, at least once in my lifetime.  I understand that when it works, the effects can be quite pleasant and...liberating.  _Please,_ Rodney, do me this honor, and take full advantage of this experience." 

"Wow," Rodney said quietly.  "You really want me to try this."

"I do."

"Huh." 

John wondered when it was that he learned to read Rodney’s body language so well.  He actually saw the moment when Rodney caved. 

 "It is safe," Teyla said, holding out the image.  "The effects do not last long, and it only works once for the user."  Rodney's gaze was on Teyla when he held out his hands, and John could see the open trust there, and damn if he wasn't jealous.

Teyla carefully placed the image within the bowl of Rodney's outstretched hands.  Rodney's fingers curled around it, keeping it safe.  His breathing was even, his eyes were closed, and John knew that Rodney was focusing on the object, using his amped-up ATA gene, thinking: "On."

Right on cue, the image began to glow, softly at first, then more, finally becoming incandescent.  John had to look away.  Teyla's hands came out, just as the light went off, just as Rodney flinched back, nearly dropping the image, like it was too hot to hold. 

Teyla replaced the image in its box, clearly unaffected by touching it.

Rodney's eyes were still closed, his hands still out, fingers twitching a little.  When his eyes cracked open, just a slit, all John could see were the whites.  Rodney shuddered and blinked, and John could see blue again. 

There were surfaces all over Atlantis, glass, steel, screens of light and energy, even some wood, that were the color of Rodney's eyes. 

What a fine fucking time to be noticing that.

Rodney focused, and gave Teyla an amazed look.  John wondered if she were holding her breath too.

Rodney was suddenly on his feet, turning slowly, eyes flickering all over the room, taking in every tile and pane of glass, the glow of the candles mounted all over the walls.   Rodney approached one of the candles and gazed into the flame.

"I did something awful a few weeks ago,"  he said.

"Rodney--" John began.

“A huge chunk of a solar system, completely incinerated.  I did that.”  Remorse, and wonder. 

John started to say that no one got hurt, but that wasn’t true.  He remembered the initial experiment, the cloying smell of seared flesh, the sight of Collins’ charred fingers, curled stiff in agony. 

“You were looking for a solution,”  John offered instead.  “You were trying to find ways to protect us.”

“Fire, and fire and fire,” Rodney murmured into the candle flame, as it sputtered and writhed on its wick.  He was shaking all over.  John couldn’t see his face.  “Right now I feel like I’ve swallowed all that fire.”

“It won’t harm you.”  Teyla’s voice, quietly assuring.

Rodney turned to them, his cheeks flushed, his eyes bright.  “I know why people pray,”  he whispered.

Christ, that was scary, coming out of Rodney.  John’s frantic thoughts of calling a medical team were interrupted by Teyla’s delighted laughter.  Then all thought stopped, because Rodney was looking at him, actually looking in his _eyes_ and smiling in a way that John hadn’t seen in, well, _ever._

John was suddenly faced with what he had been wanting for weeks.  He wasn't prepared at all.  He shoved down the instinct to look away, to flee, and met Rodney's steady gaze.  He tried his best to return Rodney’s smile. "We're good, Rodney," he said.  "We've always been good."

Rodney laughed, pure and joyful, and hugged himself. “I’m forgiven, I can feel it.  I mean, not just by you, wonderful as that is, but in the grand scheme of things, truly, truly forgiven.”  He closed his eyes, breathed deep and stretched his arms wide, happy to be alive and in his own skin.  John couldn't look away.

Teyla retrieved the old sticks from the box and picked up her own.  She walked slowly toward Rodney.  She stood at a respectful distance and waited until she had his attention.  Teyla’s rapture was akin to Rodney’s; John could see her face bright with discovery, getting to see an Athosian legend come to life. 

Teyla bowed low to Rodney and murmured something in a language John almost recognized, a dialect of Ancient, perhaps.  He was astonished when Rodney returned Teyla’s bow just as gracefully and replied in kind. 

They approached one another and touched foreheads.  Then Teyla handed Rodney the old sticks.  Together they raised their arms and spread their feet.  They began a slow, sweeping series of movements that John recognized as a warm-up exercise, something he never quite had the patience for.

Rodney mirrored Teyla’s movements precisely, effortlessly, both their faces wide open with discovery and joy.

They were beautiful together. 

They went through the series several times, each time faster.  Rodney’s wrists and hands were loose and competent.  His footwork was graceful and sure.  John’s throat was dry, and he didn’t want to blink, for fear of missing something.

When they were finished, the two touched foreheads again and Teyla retreated to the corner.  John lost track of what she was doing because Rodney had once again transferred his incandescent gaze to John.  There was a gleam in his eye that made John swallow hard.

Then Teyla was at his side, handing John his own sticks.

“Uh, wait a minute--”

“Come on, Sheppard,” Rodney said, and gave John a bright, encouraging smile.  He twirled the old sticks, nothing showy, just enough to demonstrate total competence, enjoying their weight, adjusting his grip.  Rodney’s hands knew those sticks.  “Dance with me.”

John gripped his sticks reflexively.  He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm the fuck down.  It was surreal and unnerving and hot as hell to see Rodney like this.  

Rodney took an offensive position.  His feet were set at twelve and two, his body angled, protecting his face and torso with one stick, the other raised in the classic Athosian version of en garde.  He bounced a bit on the balls of his feet, his energy barely contained.

Rodney’s body was strong and solid, for all that he spent too much time hunched over a computer.  He didn’t give John time to say yes or no.

All of that mass, and every ounce of Rodney’s impossible focus and energy were concentrated behind those two deadly sticks spinning John’s way.  John brought up his sticks just in time to deflect.  He stumbled and rolled out of Rodney’s reach, knowing without a doubt that Rodney had served him that chance on a platter. 

John’s gut clenched.  Rodney could wipe the floor with him, could hurt him, even kill him, at least until the effects of the device wore off.  _What the hell had Teyla gotten them into?_  

They circled each other in the middle of the room, sticks at the ready.  John tried to reason with Rodney, tried not to notice that his movements were perfect.  “I don’t know, Rodney, I get a little antsy around people with new-found superpowers.  Are you sure we should be doing this?”

John expected anger, or at the very least, annoyance.  Instead Rodney looked hurt, and a little desperate.  Rodney didn’t argue; he took position again, this time in a defensive pose, leaving an obvious opening, inviting John to do his worst.

John did what he usually did.  He went against his better judgment and lunged.   He worked his way methodically past Rodney’s defenses, got past Rodney’s sticks, and forced him to his knees. 

“You let me do that,” John said, giving him space.

“You seemed to need it,” Rodney growled, and sprung to his feet.  It was his turn to lunge.

John was peripherally aware that Teyla had moved to a spot right by the door.  Meanwhile, amid the loud clatter of the sticks, he was being expertly herded across the room until he ran out of space. 

Rodney had him trapped in an inescapable but comfortable hold, using his bulk to pin one of John’s arms uselessly against his own body.   He had a stick across John’s throat, the other pressing John’s wrist to the wall. 

John would swear later that what he saw at that moment had to be the sun finally cresting over the spires of the city, outside the window.  Rodney glowed.  He was flushed and sweating, his eyes inches from John’s, imploring. 

“John,” he whispered, and it was the first time for that, ever.  “It’s not going to last much longer.  I would _never_ …please.”  Rodney dropped his head and rested his sweaty brow on John’s shoulder for a moment, and John went boneless in his grip. 

“Trust me.”

 _I trust you.  I’m just not sure if I trust me,_ John thought, but he nodded silently, and Rodney backed off.

Teyla spoke then, quietly.  “I am leaving.  I will be just outside, and I will make sure no one disturbs you.  You have as much time as you need.  John, lock the door.”  Then she was gone, and John thought hard at the door to lock.

The two of them faced off again in the center of the room, closer this time.  Rodney still thrummed with energy and purpose.  The heat coming off him was palpable.  John was sure he’d see it in the right kind of light, like the shimmering air above a highway in the desert. 

Rodney attacked; the skirmish was brief and intense.  He backed away from John’s defensive crouch, giving him a second to breathe.

Rodney asked, “Do you and Teyla and Ronon always feel like this?”

“Feel like what?”

“In your bodies, so totally in your bodies.  With me, every so often I check in with the rest of my body, to eat, jerk off, go to the can, but for the most part, I’m just a disembodied head.  This, this is _amazing.”_

John considered.  “I think maybe the rest of us take it for granted.”

“Well, don’t,” Rodney said, low and intense.  He approached John again, sticks ready.  “It’s such a gift.”

The rest of the session moved in a heated blur.  They moved in their complicated dance, around and again, amid the twirl and clatter of the sticks.  The sun was up now; The light inched its way across the floor, and Rodney’s skin was zigzagged with warm patterns of gold as they passed the windows. 

Rodney never tried to trip him, floor him, trap him or trick him.  He gave way to John often, letting him see his attacks, allowing John to anticipate and react, because this was not about fighting, or even about competing.  Rodney was showing John, using all of his body to speak to John: _look at me, move with me, play with me, dance with me, never, ever stop trusting me._

Telling John, with eyes and limbs and feet, more than they’d ever openly confessed to one another.

And then John tried to pull back, to catch a breath, but this time Rodney wouldn’t let him.  His attacks came faster, more desperate.  John guessed the effects of the device were wearing off.  Rodney went on the defensive.  His blocks were coming more slowly, his attacks becoming awkward.  His frustration was clear; he was giving it everything he had, and John found himself adjusting accordingly.  John shushed him, soothed him, reminded him to pace himself.

Rodney was coming down, and his distress was more than John could take. _“More,”_ Rodney said, bitter and grieved.  He was flushed and panting, skin sheened with sweat.  “I wanted more.”

And John lost the last sliver of his cool.  There was a warm-up mat in the corner, and John maneuvered Rodney toward it.  Beneath the red haze in John’s head, he noticed Rodney was maintaining a decent defense; his footwork was still good.  Maybe he’d retain some of this.   John cut Rodney’s legs out from under him.  Then he was straddling Rodney on the mat, Rodney’s throat framed between John’s crossed sticks.

Rodney was breathing hard.  There was a damp spot around the collar of his t-shirt, trailing down his sternum.  He fixed John with a look all at once desperate, miserable and afraid.  John held himself still, and felt himself gently rising and falling with each of Rodney’s labored breaths.  He didn’t move away.

Then Rodney shifted his hips and John could feel every hard, heated inch of Rodney’s cock through their sweats, along the cleft of his ass.   
Rodney froze, terrified.  John dove down and covered Rodney’s mouth with his, biting and licking his way in, driving out the last of the fear. 

John had been hard for what felt like _days,_ and he angled his hips and ground down against Rodney’s thigh, one final assurance that they were both on the same page.

Rodney groaned into his mouth and fisted his hands in John’s hair.  John was dimly aware of his own desperate sounds, of the thump and roll of their sticks, dropped and abandoned to the mat.

Rodney’s mouth was lush, his body hot and solid and perfect.  It was better than John imagined, and John had an outstanding imagination.

He snaked a hand down the front of Rodney’s sweats and gripped his cock.  It was long and thick, wet heat at the tip, and it felt perfect in John’s fist.  Rodney growled, “Yes, _fuck,_ ” and threw his head back, his hips coming up off the floor. 

With his other hand, John worked Rodney’s sweats down to his knees.  Then John slid his hand up under Rodney’s shirt, rucking it up and spreading his hand over Rodney’s chest.   He pumped Rodney’s cock with slow, ruthless precision.  Rodney gasped and choked, his hips moving mindlessly, in counterpoint to John’s hand.

John’s fingers closed over one of Rodney’s nipples and squeezed.  Rodney arched and shouted and came, splashing his own belly, warm and wet. 

Rodney murmured a soft, “oh,” going flat and boneless against the mat and breathing hard.  John smiled, still crouched over Rodney.   He rested his head on Rodney’s damp chest, his softening cock still cradled in John’s hand. 

Then Rodney stirred, and suddenly his hands were all over John, pushing him up and back so he could heave himself to his knees.

They knelt up on the mat, scrabbling each other out of clothes between blistering kisses.  Rodney paused, his eyes burning all over John’s skin for a moment.  Then he planted a big hand on the center of John’s chest and pushed him back against the mat. 

John’s thighs opened automatically, and Rodney knelt between them, folding down and taking the head of John’s aching cock between his lips. It was all hot wet heat surrounding him, Rodney's clever tongue stroking along the ridge and swirling around the tip.  John couldn’t control the desperate gibberish coming out of his mouth and his hips shuddered and twisted with the goodness of it.  He pushed up and Rodney let him with a satisfied hum, taking his cock all the way down as his fingers cupped and petted John’s balls. 

Rodney’s hand moved away for a second.  Then it was back, rubbing along John’s perineum and teasing his hole with something slick and wet, _god_ he was using the come off his own belly.  “Fuck, just _do it,_ ” John snarled, and Rodney pushed two fingers in, mouth still working around John’s cock.

John’s hands scrabbled on the mat as he planted his feet and just fucked himself into Rodney’s mouth and around his fingers.

Rodney took both mouth and fingers away, slowly, and just as John was about to scream his frustration, he covered John, kissing him senseless and grinding his renewed erection against John’s hip.

Rodney made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a laugh.  “First it’s a ninja-pill, now it’s Viagra.”  He lifted John’s legs to his shoulders, licked his hand and palmed the wetness over his cock, lining himself up with John’s hole.  “Best.  Ancient.  Device.  _Ever,_ ” he sighed, as he pushed into John.

John hadn’t done this in ages; the stretch and burn of Rodney filling him, the sight of him trembling over John, trying to hold still and let him adjust, was almost enough to make John explode.

John took a few calming breaths and ran his hands over every part of Rodney he could reach, all smooth flushed skin, slick with sweat.  Both of them were drenched, and the room felt like a sauna.

Rodney just gripped John’s hips, hanging on for dear life, his eyes wide and wondering, and all over John. 

John tilted his hips a fraction and squeezed around the rigid heat filling his body, and Rodney let out a long, drawn-out sound that was all vowels.

“Come on,” John insisted, and they both began to move, but it was so much, such overwhelming sensation, that Rodney could only grind and stutter his hips, with John writhing drunkenly underneath him.

John’s cock was lying red and stiff and leaking against his belly, and Rodney ran his palm up the length of it before curling his fingers around to squeeze.  Rodney’s hand looked just as clever and competent wrapped around John’s cock as it had clutching the sticks. 

Rodney stroked John slow, stroked into John’s body slow, arched over him, with John nearly bent in half under him.  They stretched for kisses, sharing air, rocking into each other with no real rhythm. 

John could feel the heat start to build in his gut, and it grew until it was too big for his body, until he was shaking and moaning and coming all over Rodney’s hand, and a moment later Rodney made a sound like pain, and emptied himself into John.

John rolled them to their sides when Rodney slid out of him, and they clung to each other in a sodden heap on the mat.  John could feel the air rapidly cooling around his skin. 

John ran a stubbled cheek the length of Rodney’s throat, delighted when he shivered and pressed closer.

“How about we take this someplace more secure?”

***

Teyla was waiting outside the door for them as promised.  Rodney gave her a wild-eyed look and swept her up into an enormous hug.

“Thank you,” he breathed.  “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”  He squeezed her tighter and she gave a startled grunt.  Rodney had to be reeking of sweat and sex, but Teyla was smiling when he let her down.

John just wordlessly handed her the old box.  She raised an eyebrow at him and he just shrugged, said, “heh,” and took off down the hall after Rodney.

 

***

John was in the mess, eating lunch with Radek when Rodney came in from stick practice with Teyla.  Rodney’s shirt was darkened with sweat, and his brand-new sticks were poking out of a satchel slung over his shoulder.  When he spotted John across the room, his eyes went soft and warm before he turned to get his food. 

John suppressed a shiver, and tried not to think about yesterday, when they had stumbled into Rodney’s quarters for round two.  He tried not to think about how they frantically tore at each other’s clothes, tried not to think about his knees on the hard tiles of the shower, hot water beating down on both of them, the bitter salt taste of Rodney’s cock, and his soft, needy sounds.  He tried not to think about Rodney spread out on the bed, of covering all that solid skin with his own, of sinking into that tight, generous heat--

Radek kicked him under the table.  John dragged his gaze away from Rodney’s ass to glare at him, but Radek was grinning down at his tater tots.

“Was I that obvious?”

“Perhaps only my keen powers of observation.  I take it Rodney has yet to share the results of our scan of Teyla’s artifact--little man with three big sticks?”

John raised an eyebrow.

 _“Nothing,”_ Radek said gleefully.  “We found nothing.  It is clay, through and through.”  Radek looked smug.  “Rodney comforts himself with groundless theory that his synthetic gene somehow degenerated the inner workings of the device.”

“Well, what do you think it was?”  John asked.

“Magic,” Radek replied solemnly.  “All hail the Lord of Rods,” he added, twirling his fork at Rodney, who was approaching with his lunch, and it was John’s turn to kick Radek under the table.

 


End file.
